


A Myriad of Mean Little Chances

by Syrinx



Series: Chimerical [7]
Category: Thoroughbred
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-02
Updated: 2009-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrinx/pseuds/Syrinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gauche: lacking social grace, sensitivity, or acuteness; awkward; crude; tactless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Myriad of Mean Little Chances

The moment she says it, he knows. Knows it’s not what he wants, knows it’s not even possible, and after that it doesn’t take much. All it takes is courage, and this is the one thing he knows he doesn’t have. It is easy to run, so he goes.

He stands in the shedrow, deserted, listening to the autumn rain dripping off the eaves. The Prince stands behind him, chin on his shoulder, patient as always. He doesn’t feel the victory they’ve just gained, not in his bones, not like usual. It is lost, abnormally less, a stone chunked to the pit of his empty stomach. His mind is elsewhere, on her, unchanged.

The sound of footsteps, the click and scuttle of heels on wet gravel, drift down the barn. She’s a too skinny image on the fringe of his vision, all smooth lines and sharp angles. A haze of moisture beads in her hair, glinting brilliant in the white blond strands, like diamonds. Her eyes are bright, predatory. She smiles, white and perfect.

“What are you doing, hiding back here?” It’s a hidden admonishment, locked behind her fluttering eyelashes, the fingers that brush up his arm. He doesn’t shake her off, doesn’t snap, but takes it for what it is.

“Peace and quiet, Mel,” he says, lifts the arm she’s touching, but not toward her. He wraps it around the colt’s neck, dragging his fingers across the Prince’s poll. The colt looks at her with one deep brown eye, appraising, unmoving and silent.

“Well, that’s entirely unacceptable,” she tells him primly, taking her hand from him. Her arms cross, her chin tips up, her lips quirk. He recognizes it for what it is, realizes it’s not an invitation without benefits.

He stands still, shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint,” he drawls, and she rocks on her heels. The hem of her dress shifts and trembles around her knees.

“You can make it up to me,” she assures him. He’s knows he will. “Come out,” she says, making it a plea instead of an order. She’s not a girl unaccustomed to either.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. It lasts a split second too long because she pouts, a professional hint of lower lip.

“Unless you have that girlfriend waiting in the wings.”

“No,” he tells her. The word hangs there between them, and she smiles.

“Good,” she says, reaches out again. “That’s good, Brad.”

He goes.

***

Ashleigh throws away the flowers, a thorn leaving a line of blood on her thumb. She ignores it and sucks in a breath, her sister’s sobs filling her ears. When she leaves the house, she doesn’t make it a point to find him. She doesn’t yearn to give him a piece of her mind. She just wants it over. Wants it done and gone.

That isn’t how it happens. She should have known.

*

When he looks at her, he knows he’s in trouble. She’s just standing there with that look of contempt he finds so attractive, which means he’s so broken. Means he’s grown up wrong.

The colt stands between them, his head down, eyes dull. He’s not a fool, but it doesn’t mean he’s not so mad he can taste it like bile on the back of his throat. Her eyes are firecracker green, cutting and hot, like sparks. Everything about her flashes, coils, and he feels a visceral need to hit something hard and unforgiving until he bleeds. Until he can beat down whatever it is about her that he needs.

His fingers thrill at the thought, and she stands her ground.

*

Neither realize what’s happening until it is already there. She’s standing with Pride on a bright carpet of green. The colt is blissfully ignorant to the world, burying his mouth in the grass. Her hair has fallen permanently out of the sloppy ponytail she’s tired of fixing. The breeze drifts it over her eyes, and she flicks it away, shakes her head and looks up, right at him.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he tells her, his hand on her arm above her elbow.

“What is?” she asks, looks up.

He shakes his head, fingers tightening around her skin. She doesn’t try to run. So he kisses her, there in the yard, in front of everyone who bothers to look, and they are all looking. It’s a bruise across her parted lips, a take over, and the only way she knows how to respond is to wrap her hand in the cotton of his shirt and haul him closer. To kiss him back in kind.

*

They sit outside the stall, California dry against their skin. The colt stands on three legs behind them, careful about his right foreleg. The sounds coming from the stall are at least a comfort to him. Pride moves restlessly, rustles through the bedding, and sighs a quiet breath into the night.

Ashleigh rests her head against his shoulder, looks down at her hand in his. He leans against the wall, doesn’t care about the dirt and the dust, just lets his eyes close, listens to his horse, to the track in the dead of night.

“I love you.”

Her words are whispers, muffled by hesitation. His fingers twitch on hers. She doesn’t stop staring at their hands, and he thinks that this is really for the best when he turns to press a kiss against her forehead.

The blood rushes in his ears.

***

“The breeding manager’s daughter,” Lavinia says through a leer. She runs her fingers through his hair, forearm pressing against his chest. “You are something else.”

Brad swallows a mouthful of scotch, sets the tumbler on the railing. The party beneath them is a forgettable mesh of silk and silver, a dull roar. He barely pays it any mind, can hardly remember why he’s there to begin with. It’s just a place, a way to surround himself, a method to forget. It keeps her out of sight, out of mind, out of body, and for this he is grateful.

“I can think of some choice words for you.”

“What would those be?” She is all pretty smiles, a cat’s grin and manicured nails. He watches her hips move, slippery in her shimmering gown. Everything about her is slick, impossible to grasp. Her whole body tips forward, eager for his definition.

“Malicious,” he says. “For starters.”

“Oh,” she sighs, lifts a hand to play the diamonds on her neck, glance across her delicate collarbones, all creamy smooth skin and distraction. “I’m so disappointed.”

“What did you want to hear?”

“Something true.”

He looks down at her, tears his eyes from the party, the people. She stares up at him from under thick lashes, coy and forthright all at once. Her lips purse.

“I,” she tells him slowly, dragging on the words, “am like you. Spoiled and rotten and always right.”

When he doesn’t answer, she asks, “What is she?”

“Better.”

“And yet,” she shakes her head, reaches up to trace a finger across his forehead, down his jaw. “Poor thing.”

He catches her hand, pulls it away, and looks at her with enough hate to send a warning. She just smiles that lazy, self-assured grin, tips her head back like she’s offering her throat, wants without realizing what she’s getting.

When he tugs her into him, he knows where he is going. Her lips graze across his mouth, beckoning.

He goes.


End file.
